


oK

by slire



Category: Nymphomaniac (2013)
Genre: Brutality, Bugs & Insects, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slire/pseuds/slire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>segments from the life of a self-diagnosed sexual sadist.</p><p>ranges from an essay about (pseudo)snuff film → to K visiting DomCon LA</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tick

The man thinks the abandonment of names makes it easier, because if nameless, things cannot exist. But at the same time namelessness is a source of constant horror. The unknown—or just the concept of nothing / vacuum, which humanity discovered a meek 500 years ago—stirs up terror in conscious-burdened humanity. 

Therefore, publically, he identifies as asexual. It's not something that's brought up often, but sex is a powerful human drive and can appear everywhere. He exercises **control** over his life, the structure preordained and absolute. Like a Greek tragedy.

Or the life of a tick.

The man lives in a city, a city with million bodies slim and busy in a blur of stone façades and chromed faces. He's one of the million, walking home from work at 20:00, vanishing in rain, reflections, light and night, avoiding eye contact like a disease. His hands are curled inside gloves inside roomy pockets. He works at an ok place with an ok pay, has ok friends, an ok apartment, and comes home every single day to an ok bed and thinks _Is this what my life has become?_ He understands that there exist people who have had enough ups and downs to favour such a linear life, but he hasn't and does not. His past is not filled with holes or traumas, but rather a continuous disconnection. His parents could have been strangers and his best friends animals for what he cared. It wasn't like he'd been unhappy, just... disconnected, which grew as he moved to the City. His childhood had been normal except some minor anomalies.  " _As a child, you would often tie up and beat your toy animals_. _Of course, this is not something that persisted, as we were very strict when it came to manners._ " Mommy's implications are something he prefers not to dwell on, it's too private, so he shoves the information in a glass jar, screws the lid on tight, throws it far into a dark corner of his mind and prays to God that the glass will not break.

But on some days...

The glass...

Tonight, he slams the white Macbook's lid down so hard his teeth rattle. His erection is aching in his pants, straining against his boxers. He shudders uncomfortably ( _get in control, get in control, get. In. Control!_ ) as he stands up, walking around in circles in the room, trying to think of something else—

_faces glistering with sweat, salivating, twisting into grimaces of terror and agony, oh fuck there's blood **everywhere**_

—and decides to recite the life circle of the tick.

(...Structure, preordained and absolute. The creature must strive to enact its fate. The only question is if it succeeds or not. Its life begins in spring as it emerges as a larva from a small brown egg, one of 5-10 000 eggs laid by her mother just prior to her death last fall. It has no eyes. Throughout its life, it will be blind. But the tick's skin is hypersensitive, and it's hard-wired to set its course towards the sun. Perhaps it will climb a stand of grass. There, it will wait to board any small warm-blooded animal that happens to brush against it. From this host, it will take its first blood meal...)

His erection isn't gone yet. It is not the arousal itself that bothers him; it's what he got aroused by. _Rigor mortis,_ some distant, uncontrolled part of his mind cackles.

(...The blood will transform will it into a nymph. The nymph will also seek the sun...)

The pondering continues after he's calmed down. Sites like that, he knows 'em. Tries not to, but as he grew up with the Internet it's a given he'd end up there, eventually, especially since it matches his interests so well. Shock sites, not so much, but there is darker stuff out there, deep web and all. Honestly he's not certain how he ended up on that particular site tonight. It eludes him.

He's not a bad person, is he? For years, guilt has been his only companion. Guilt because he gets hot and bothered over violence, the extremer the better. He's kept it on hold, believing to be triumphing over his slights, avoiding the nuthouse. If the need got too much, he had password protected files with suitable content. Sometimes, that wasn't enough, and he found himself searching for other things. Like that time he accidently found what appeared to be a snuff film festival after downloading an anonymity network. Girls, screaming.  

(...And a second blood meal, will transform the nymph into an adult lady tick. Now a third time, it seeks the sun. It will climb a tree. It's out for big game; a deer, a dog, an elk, a man... It'll wait in suspended animation, conserving energy, until it senses the molecules of a chemical found in the sweat of mammals. And as the animal passes, it'll drop, clinging to the fur or skin with the clever little hooks at the end of its feet...)

The man inhales deeply, cheeks hollowing.

Blood on tooth.

The fantasies have already started. He licks his lips. The apartment is dark, but he prefers it that way. In the light of the computer, his face looked sickly. He's spent way too many nights watching people fucking till they're bloody, on screen.

(...There the tick will spend 1-3 days inspecting its host, before it settles on the spot, the right vein for its third and final meal. It'll insert its mouth painlessly into the flesh, and submit itself in by exclusions from a gland, putting its host on a steady sedative...)

He knows of the clubs out there. But again, there's the problem with names—he ignores things like _safeword_ and _edgeplay_ , finding most of the BDSM community to be far too theatrical. The chains are loose and fake, the riding crops made of plastic... It feels artificial. Fake. If— **if**!—he was the owner of such a dungeon, he'd make it clean, sterile, stripping it down to the basics. Control requires no latex, no underwear, and no excess. And that's his kink, isn't it?

Absolution.

_Tonight I am your God._

The man groans, pushing his face against a wall. The dark fantasies reappear.

(...For a few days, it feeds moderately. The animal becomes drowsy, losing motor coordination. Then a consort appears, and mates with the tick still submitted in with its head. After insemination, the consort tick dies. Now it increases its blood intake, gorging ferociously; it'll attain a hundred times her original weight. It looks like a grape. When fully engorged, it'll drop to the ground, and lay 5-10 000 small brown eggs. And then it will die. If it can complete this cycle in one summer, this means success. If not, it'll winter over, and try to compete the following year. If it fails again it has one more chance in year 3...) 

But...

He's not evil, is he? He'd only do consensual nonconsensual, he knows that much. It means less guilt—and less law suits. The idea of a clean space to live out his dreams blooms in his mind, taking root, curling within him. A smile appears on his thin lips, the first genuine one in months. Perhaps. _Perhaps_.

That night he dreams of cemented bunkers and grotesque and intimate encounters in controlled chaos.

(...Three stages. Three blood meals. Three chances. No choices.

No question of free will.)


	2. snuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> K's search for snuff film(s).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> k = timothy 
> 
> it's a ref to American Psycho

Snuff.

Snuff film.

If his research into its history is correct, then the origin of the definition was either used first by 1: one of Charles Manson's followers as the cult leader had killed someone on camera,  _or_  2: the micro budget production  _Slaughter_ (1971), a splatter film so horrible no distributor wanted to touch it, till Alan Skackleton rediscovers it and cuts into the end of the bloody film, revealing a camera crew before the pic gets black spelling THE END. A gritty, low budget gorefest made real. The genius laid in the marketing: Skackleton hired homeless people to demonstrate outside the cinemas. Skackleton named the film genre snuff. Technically, the word snuff means to extinguish a candle.

"Do you have anything  _worse_?"

The guy behind the desk of the dark video store had the look of someone who'd seen everything. Rain pelted. It's 2am. The stranger in front of her doesn't scare her—so she nods, wordlessly, and raises a finger to cut through the air pointing in the direction of a backroom. The stranger thanks her and heads there. His personal collection of horror film is huge. 500+. Mostly legal, some illegal. The legend of snuff films had always titillated him.

Which was how he met a guy who introduced himself simply as "Patrick".

The road to snuff is a long passage past extreme violence and torture, pornography and blood, indifference and depression: where twisted pictures of angst constantly whip you in the face. When you wade up to the ears drums in decays—that's where he met Patrick.

The stranger is digging through a "treasure" chest of old VHS movies nobody want, some completely ruined, others without covers and names written on with felt pen, when Patrick lays a hand on his shoulder and asks, "Do you need help?" Tall, somewhat gangly, with bushy brows and skeletal fingers. Patrick introduces himself, and the stranger says his name is "Timothy". They share grins, then, wolves with friendly grins. Patrick's mouth is too wide. The start of a beautiful friendship.

The definition of a snuff film goes something like this:

A real murder must happen in front of camera.

Special effects are not allowed.

The film must be made for sexual pleasure.

The purpose must be distribution with economical gain.

Even if Skackleton's snuff film wasn't real, it created the myth of their existence.

"Oh, they exist," Patrick tells Timothy, walking with him side by side and slurping up the plastic cup of crab soup he'd gotten at a fast food joint with a Chinese lady who looked ready to murder someone. The conversation had gotten to it quickly: Patrick spoke freely about the most horrifying things, and Timothy slipped into it easily, even if he'd only spoken about this shit online on forums without photos or names. Technically, there were no names here either. "I've never come over one before, but I'm certain they exist. Too many fucked up people. The police don't wanna make it public though, of course."

Timothy and Patrick starts meeting up again and again to trade rare VHS cassettes with each other. Uncensored, preferably. Patrick has history and takes Timothy to him with open arms, like an apprentice. They travel to foreign countries together to get the proper rarities. Meetings in forgotten allies, dark pubs, saying passwords to grinning people who introduce them to secrets worlds in PERSONNEL ONLY rooms.

In the nineties, Charlie Sheen came over the mythical  _The Flowers of Flesh and Blood (1985)_  and delivered it to FBI, certain he had found a real snuff movie. The grainy film lasts for 42 minutes and shows a man hacking off a woman's limbs, disembowelling her, and after she's dead he plucks out an eyeball and uses it as a lollipop. Films like these went in circles long before the DVD showed up, and they were traded in environments that Patrick knew so well of. Of course, it was all fake, and part of the Japanese  _Guinea Pig_  series. The filmmakers made a documentary to avoid prosecution, in which the main actress plays with latex organs to pass the time.

Still,  _The Flowers of Flesh and Blood_ became one of the most sold VHS cassettes in the world at that time. It created the genre pseudo-snuff. Another famous psedo-snuff film and fictional documentary is  _Cannibal Holocaust (1980)_ , which features a bunch of filmmakers filming cannibals in Amazonas and ends up being cannibalized themselves. Yet  _Cannibal Holocaust_ grossed more than  _E.T. (1982)_.

The director, Rugggero Deodato made contracts with the actors which forbade them to show themselves for a year. This, too, ended up in court. Luckily the mess was cleared up.

"Even in the Age of Enlightenment, the start of modern history, autopsies used to be like, performances in front of thousands of people," Patrick says once, sitting and sipping a cocktail in Timothy hypermodern and sterile apartment. "A common butcher would cut up the body and an academic would point out the organs. The spectators partied afterwards. So the act itself is still considered gruesome enough for nobody wanting to touch it—but watch and celebrate it? Oh fuck yes. 'Sides, it was only criminals and whores who were cut up anyway. It's the same in today's horror movies, no?"

(Of course, Timothy never masturbates to it when Patrick's there. Yet he suspects Patrick knows, because Timothy sometimes have to excuse himself and go to the toilet / wears a thick blanket or extremely tight jeans.)

But the concept of snuff film remained something untouchable.

Patrick knows all the tricks, and in turns, taught them to Timothy. Plastic knives, organs with wrong colours or form, blood doesn't act like that, that's latex, there's a clip in the sequence where they switched the actress with a doll.

There are documentaries, of course. Shockumentaries like  _Faces of Death (1978)_  with 40% fake footage, some real—like dead baby seals and a cyclist being driven over and paramedics scooping up his guts, its copycat  _Traces of Death_  (1993) with more real footage like Budd Dwyer's televised suicide. At the dawn of facebook, people started sharing videos of extremist groups beheading people. Executions filmed on mobile phones. Real, but for most Western countries it felt so far away it almost happened in another, fictional world. Besides, it doesn't qualify. It's not sexual and it's not for commercial use.

Life imitates art, too. Serial killer Tsutomu Miyazaki recreated scenes from  _The Flowers of Flesh and Blood_  in his own apartment, where he held women and tortured them to death. But these can't be classified as snuff as they were for his use only. British married couple Fred and Rosemary West did the same ordeal, and buried the women under their porch. 8 video cameras and a huge collection of violent pornography were found in his apartment. One featured two men who raped a woman and put a tube in her vagina for mice and bugs to crawl through. Its name?  _Kilroy was here_.

Al Goldstein, the director of the porn magazine  _Screw_ , has offered a million dollar to the person who will show him a real snuff film. The offer still stands.

"It's all bullshit, " Patrick hisses,"that nobody's come through yet. People have killed for less. I bet he's in league with the cops, and whenever some sick fuck contacts him, he just sends the person over to FBI."

"Well I exactly don't think there exists a snuff film festival," Timothy retorts, growing dubious over the existence of snuff when he's been searching for such a long time. However, he mentioned reading about the title  _The Mexican Doctor_  in a forum, but Patrick said he'd never heard of anything like that. Patrick claims Asian films are the worst, and has a friend who has a friend who has a friend that's seen a video with a group of men raping a dead baby. Then there's  _Sexual Perversion: Whip and Pierce_ and  _Sexual Perversion 2: Cut and Burn_ , and the  _Human Centipede_  series. Both are equally fake. When interviewed how he managed to do the movies with such a low budget, the director Jason Whitman simply answered the actresses enjoyed it to the point of coming repeatedly, and he was annoyed on how hard it was to capture a female orgasm on camera. For him, however, it was just a job. Tom Six got the idea for  _Human Centipede_  when a friend mentioned how child molesters should have their mouths sewed to the anus of an old overweight man for the rest of their lives.  _Men Behind The Sun (1988),_ which is about the "Japanese holocaust" at Unit 731, uses live corpses.

Some movies about snuff are  _Tesis (1996), Cigarette Burns (2005), 8MM (1999), My Little Eye (2000), Henry: portrait of a serial killer (1986)_ and a BBC documentary named  _Do snuff films exist? (2006)._

Another famous story is that of Dmitri Vladimirovich Kuznetsov, a Russian car mechanic in his thirties who kidnapped kids and distributed films of their torture on the site Candyland. Italian police confiscated over 3000 mailed films. Official report stride with each other, some claiming children died on camera and others saying they lived. The Italian paper Il Mattino published this extract from a conversation between Kuznetsov and a customer:

\- You must promise me you don't try to fool me.

\- Relax. I can guarantee you that he really dies.

\- Last time I paid I didn't get what I wanted.

\- What do you want?

\- To see them die.

You get immune after a while.

And a little bored.

The line between fiction and the real still remains big for Timothy, and he finds himself more excited over live material—real people—than gory horror movies. He moves on to dramas. Even arthouse. Cultivates his taste, and sees Patrick less and less.

One day, Patrick appears with a small brown paper bag—like the ones alcoholics hide their vodka in—and wears that inhuman smile reserved for special occasion. He has Timothy swear that he's never going to tell anyone what he's about to see, or who gave him the cassette. He also says Timothy has to watch it alone, and the smile widens and widens and widens.

"Good luck."

The cassette has no name. It's obviously secondhand. Patrick won't tell him where it's from, looks around suspiciously and vanishes into the night.

Timothy trembles when putting it on. Something about this makes his hairs stand out on his back.

There are no cheap sound effects when the film opens. Just a black screen, lasting for about 10 seconds, then it turns to grainy footage of a room somewhere. A bedroom, by the looks of it. On the bed, there's a girl. 15, maybe. Duct taped to it. Then a man walks over to her and stabs her repeatedly, all over. From the abdomen to the face. The motions are erratic, unplanned. The sound is very low, and Timothy pumps the volume on full and hears a wet squelchy sound as if the meat tries to hold it back. The girl is probably dead after a good 20 minutes of pure stabbing (Timothy exited at some occasions to grab a glass of water; anything to cool the disgust pooling in his stomach). That's it. Timothy is disappointed.

The man turns around.

Patrick.

...

...

...

Timothy heads into the bathroom to puke.

He never sees Patrick again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> research was compiled over several years 
> 
> mostly prompted by an article in an old dusty library magazine I got for free + some diving into the deepweb as research into other areas of human evil. havent' seen half of these movies, and I don't rec those I've watched


	3. con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> K visits DomCon LA, briefly.

The latex is tight like an xxs condom and moist with his sweat and spit. A glove two sizes too small—for his head. But the gimp mask does its job: hiding the man's identity. He is at a place he would never go a few years ago. But acknowledging his taste for sadism is better than fall victim to repression and end up massacring some people in a mall before blowing his own brains out. What a waste that'd be.

DomCon LA.

A domination and fetish convention, held / hid in the basement of some hotel. Ventilation is shitty. Air, bad. Thick with oil and grease from the food stands and bacterial overgrowth. Latex, leather, chains. They squeak and rasp and clink. Corsets, mini skirts, high heels. Old people. Young people. Fat, thin, ugly, pretty. No cameras, here. No prying eyes. Dominatrices enforce the rules. Journalists don't want to mess with them.

There are classes, you can enrol in. How to Flog Someone 101, for an example. Pet shows. The last ones make him squirm, uncomfortable with being covered / coated / _hidden_. He still feeds some skittles to a cat lady ( **literal** cat lady), who mews in happiness. The owner smiles. The sex toy stand sours his mood considerably—those aren't _real_ enough for him, not _painful_ enough.

A male attendee asks where his owner is. He replies that he has none. He gets a lot of numbers, from both subs and doms.

He feels out of place.

No sterility, here.

Everybody's too warm, too happy. Too out in the open.

.

.

He leaves without satisfaction.


	4. seligman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> K gets a call from a friend

the whole apartment looks and smells like a library. books. dust. coffee—the cheap, instant, bitter just-wash-it-down shit. his lips curl above his teeth. he can taste it. shit coffee and lard, corroded into the yellowed ripped wallpaper, dusty lace curtains, ugly fucking secondhand furniture…

out of all the people to call she chose to call **him**.

he's uncertain what to feel about it. "fido," he says, establishing their relationship. he ignores the corpe's presence, even if he dully notes it sports a death boner. must've laid here for a while. hours? a day? old man, in his fifties, sixties? he's lying face down but has looks like an old man, earth colors, a read-about-it-but-not-experienced look, overweight but undernourished. 

"k," she greets, blasé. there's a gun in her hand.

he hasn't heard that name before. _"master",_ _"sir"_ , or _"please god no"_ are all alterations of titles he gets during his encounters, but k? like in key? did he open something in her that spoiled, spurted out and killed this man? bacteria. millions. trillions. a clotting paste.

he looks around. "did someone hear the gunshot?"

"i don't know. i don't think he has someone who checks on him. he's a virgin. lover of books, and books only, until he smelled pussy." she twirls the gun in her hand, nonchalant. she's twice his age but he doesn't care—last time he saw her she had a vaginal infection, inflammation of the uterus, ass and pussy spurting liquefied garbage. they had to stop. she didn't want to. secretly, he didn’t either. "i thought he was a friend. was wrong."

"yeah. you said he tried to rape you on the phone."

"yes."

"you sounded upset."

"i was. had some time to think. got over it. his death served to prove a point." back to nihilism, then. "but i need your help. initially i thought about running off… but he doesn't have anyone who'd miss him, so it's better to dispose of the body. i thought you had better grasp on this and all."

"didn't you have a boss?" he betrays his knowledge of the underworld here, but doesn't care.

"he's got my apprentice, who hates me. she fucked my ex."

"hm."

he still wonders about the name, k. today he is k, he decides: her torturer and savior.

"burying it is too risky. and the chemicals too dispose of the body are too expensive." he thinks about it, briefly, soaking the rapist's body in a puddle of bad drugs. watch it corrode into the same wallpaper along with the dust and the grease. but no. "did anyone see you enter the building?"

"no. what do you propose?" fido asks.

"we burn him. it's gonna smell like shit but it'll leave no trace." clean. relief.

"it'll send a message though," fido says and smirks. "where?"

"we set fire to the apartment. does he have food? we'll put it in the oven on full  power. close the windows. make sure it seems like a tank of gasoline has fallen."

"it's risky."

"he has no friends," k says. "nobody will come." he helps her prepare it. picks up the bullet, lays it into fido's pocket. the body of the rapist—which he fucking hates, by the way—is seated at the table. k lets fido pour the gasoline. she lets out a single sob. then she gets hard, really hard, and does not pour irregularly. she always was a tough bitch. she leaves a trail until the door where k stands, leaned on the wall.

…

they watch it burn.

"thank you, friend," she says.

he doesn't know what to answer, so he doesn't.

she slaps his ass on the way out.


	5. mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> K tries on the gimp mask once again.

"K," she asks, fear in her eyes, "why are you still wearing that mask?"

He touches his face. 

He isn't.


	6. body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> K struggles further with his sanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooo idk where the fuck this came from. found it when cleaning out my phone. fit this story but i dont know if i'm the original author or i've downloaded or written it when drunk or something. if anyone has seen this before, spill

there is no greater enemy than my body.

a mindless, helpless, stupid automaton locked within laws of biology. illogical. inefficient. separate. unrecognizable.

i resent it for its weaknesses. shame it for its failures. reject it for its unfamiliarity. there is no stranger feeling than being so far removed from your own hands, your own face.

it isn’t me. it isn’t me and it disgusts me, frightens me.

the anger is relentless and toxic.

i pin it with its own eyes - lay it upon blueprints and cut great swaths of its filth away. peeling at its layers with obsessive detail. nothing escapes my notice. nothing. nothing. if i could flense it from me, like cleaning a carcass, i wouldn’t hesitate. 

semi-erotic daydreams of caging it for months in a basement, naked and deprived of care. starving it. wasting it to nothing. roasting it slowly over coals until the skin cracks and falls away - livid red muscle and weeping sloughs, white bone moist and exposed, allowed to breathe.

i want to break its legs. i want to saw them off at the knee. mangle them beyond repair and graft the sad remains onto steel and pistons. something monstrous and ugly and representative of what they should be. suck the marrow from its bones and give it use. give it a purpose.

tear all of it away. boil it, burn it, condense it into chemically-seared jerky stretched taut over a metal frame. crack out every tooth and drill a mask over the worst of it. the face is the worst. always the worst. a disfigured lie mocking human features. it must be completely removed. relief.

chain it by the throat to the back of a truck and drag it for miles, packing the emptiness with grit and hot asphalt. pour molten polycarbonates over its wounds and shunt its failing limbs with rebar. mutilate its genitals with battery acid, meat tenderizers, and wire. a numb mound of waxy flesh and knotted scar tissue. relief. ribcage exposed and the gaps between scalpeled open so it can breathe, breathe, breathe while its organs sit packed tight under a net of fiberglass mesh and tubing. and it would feel nothing but the pain of its raw exposed necrotizing parts drying out in the air or being decontaminated with chlorine and antiseptics. repeatedly until nothing was left. no nerves to fire. machine sounds and dead flesh. air. 

relief.

but it isn’t possible, and i’m suffocating in this place. like two unrelated people cut apart and glued together at the seams; lopsided, shapeless mass of excessive tissue wasting space and resources. i look at it and don’t know where i am. how can there be a compromise?

it was put in my care, and i don’t want it. it tries so hard to please me, and i wish it would die.

there is no other use for it aside from fuel.


End file.
